


On Hallowed Ground I Stay

by captainkilly



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Frank's beard should be its own character, hot chocolate shenanigans, there is a dog, there will be tiny fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:58:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: He never says "I love you", but whispers every word of it in all the spaces Karen Page leaves for him in her life.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frankcasxtle on Tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frankcasxtle+on+Tumblr).



> A Halloween gift, with the request for domestic/cute couple stuff and maybe a first kiss for good measure.. 
> 
> .. and my eternal thanks to a friend for telling me pumpkin trees are a real thing.

He honestly tried putting off the whole 'turn up on her doorstep'-idea indefinitely. He thinks it would've been easier that way. She doesn't need his kind of hassle. Made that perfectly clear.

Yet, Karen Page invites trouble that doesn't necessarily wear his nametag.

He hesitates stupidly in front of her door. He's aware that he looks like a total dummy with his hand raised in the air like that, hovering halfway to a knock, but he needs to talk himself off the ledge on this one first. He has to get it right. He can't spook her. Can't be too friendly, either, not with how things came to a standstill out in those woods.

He knocks on the door before he loses all semblance of nerves in the fray of his mind.

The realisation that he's bracing for impact doesn't hit him until the door swings open and he sees her for the first time in months. She's still too blonde, too blue-eyed, too much leg-and-heel to be seen with the likes of him. Too smart as well, probably, because she takes only half a second to identify him and then glances over his shoulders at the rest of the hallway. He sees her eyes narrow as she takes in their empty surroundings.

"Were you followed?" she snaps at him. "I just got the holes in the walls filled back up. I don't need another shootout."

"I'm clear," he responds. He blinks at her tone of voice rather owlishly. "Haven't been followed in weeks." That much, at least, is the truth. Somewhat belatedly, he realises he hasn't yet greeted her. "Hi."

She frowns at him. Leans against her doorpost with her arms folded and a semi-permanent crease forming between her brows. She doesn't greet him back. Just watches him. He supposes he deserves the scrutiny. Her head tilts slightly as she looks him up and down.

"What's with the beard?"

That's not a question he'd expected. Briefly, he wonders where her anger disappeared to. "I'm undercover," he finally says after a brief pause. It's only halfway true, but the beard does help keep him out of trouble. He hasn't shaved in weeks. Hasn't cut his hair, either. "Blending in."

She shakes her head. He can see a reluctant smile curve around the corner of her mouth when she looks down at the ground. There's a flash of teeth shortly after that first glimmer of amusement. This is what gives him hope that they're still good. "Undercover my ass," she finally tells him. Her voice is light and careful. "I reckon you just got really tired of following military rules."

"That so?"

"Damn straight."

She locks eyes with him then. There's a set to her mouth and eyes he recognises in an instant. It's daring him to disagree. To shake his head, tell her 'no', and walk away. She's a trapdoor reinforced with steel and he forgot the way to the other exit a long time ago. She's done this before. He doesn't know if she knows that she's testing him. Hell, he doesn't know what he's being tested _for_. He just stands there and takes it in stride the way he does everything else about her.

"Maybe." He concedes to her only halfway. She lets out a small huff of annoyance at that. "Maybe I just need to lie low for a while."

"The Punisher's all over the news and you _really_ want to talk about lying low?" Her voice turns into a soft but menacing hiss while she gestures at him. "For someone who's supposedly not looking for any attention, you're sure as hell getting a lot of it. Why the _hell_ are you here, Frank?"

There's the anger, then. Honest, painful, raw. She's fidgeting and moving her weight from one foot to the other, but doesn't back down. He didn't really expect her to. She's all fight and hurt staring him right in the face. He averts his gaze to the wall next to her head. Swallows away the lump of discomfort that's threatening to lodge itself in his throat. He knows he should apologise. Leaving her out in the cold like that wasn't part of the plan. (He didn't have that much of a plan to begin with. Bull, meet soaring red flag. Vengeance doesn't care about the cold.) He can't say he's sorry, though. Not when her eyes are on him like _that_ and she's tapping her foot like _so_ and she's trying not to rouse the entire apartment building from its slumber in her righteous rage.

He decides to run with the truth. It's all he has.

"You're in danger. That corporate thing you've been looking into doesn't like people snooping around in their finances." He chances a glance at her. Her eyes have narrowed dangerously, but there's a thoughtfulness to her stance that tells him he's probably safe for now. "Think they might pay someone to scare you off before you get a chance to publish in Saturday's edition."

"Good luck to them." Her voice is ice. "Thanks for the warning. Now I know I'm onto a story."

She's back in her apartment with the door shut in his face before he can get another word in. He sighs in the quiet of the hallway. Rakes his hand through his hair tiredly. He decides he needs coffee seconds later. It's going to be a long couple of days until that article is due.

*****

Patience is a virtue, or so they say. He almost believes it when patience leads him to be able to take lives in a careful, methodical way. He's less adept at saving lives, but patience has proven to be a helpful companion in that regard too. There's admittedly not much method or care to the way he took care of business tonight. Coffee's not enough to keep the lull of sleep away from his mind entirely.

He thinks there might still be a victory hiding in the aftermath of what he's done.

 _Knows_ there's victory when he kneels beside her and she's already gazing back at him through bleary eyes. He helps her stand. Steadies her with one hand under her arm and the other on her waist. She doesn't look too bad, but he's not about to take his chances and let go of her now that she's upright. He tightens his grip on her slightly before brushing her hair back out of her face.

"I got you, ma'am," he tells her softly. "You're safe."

"F-Frank?"

"Yeah, 's me."

She blinks at him a little too sluggishly. He heaves a sigh. "Come on, Page," he encourages as he walks her forward step by step. She's stumbling along like baby deer Bambi trying to find her footing -- his baby girl would certainly giggle about that. He thinks Lisa would find Karen Page 'a funny lady, daddy'. Especially now that she's huffing out an annoyed curse at her own lack of balance. He scrutinises her. "Alleys aren't good places for you alone, didn't you know?"

She rolls her eyes at him over that. "Shortcuts are this city's bread," she tells him assuredly. (His mind helpfully supplies the missing 'and butter' to her statement.) "I knew what I was doing."

"Sure you did."

He decides not to argue with her as long as she sounds half-drunk and quite thoroughly out of her regular astute state of mind. What matters is getting her home without too much of a hitch. Her newfound grip on his arm is at least keeping her steady for the moment. He vaguely feels her nails pierce his skin through the fabric of his grey hoodie. If that's what it takes for her to stumble her way home, he'll take it.

They're out of the alley, at least, and he's relieved to find they're not as far away from her place as he'd anticipated. The prospect of a fight always zones him out of where he is -- location simply doesn't matter as much as making it out alive does. The warrior's haze is leaving his brain with every step they take away from the alley. He can't stop the twitch of his fingers at every noise that surrounds them.

They're not in the clear just yet.

He can barely feel her weight when she leans on him. It doesn't take much effort to hold her up. She's got a slight limp and too many bruises on her body that he's careful not to touch. There's a cut on her cheekbone that he'll need to fix. She's conscious, which is good. She's slurring her words, which decidedly isn't. She looks like something a cat dragged out of a garbage can, which possibly explains why the entirety of New York seems to be giving them a wide berth right now. They probably look like two drunken fools stumbling down the street in the early morning haze of looming sobriety. The sound of her heels hitting the pavement is just as angry as the rumble inside his chest that's screaming for him to turn back around and exact some modicum of vengeance.

He tells his rage to shut the hell up. Not everything on his priority list is topped by murder, whether Red wants to believe it or not, and he needs to get her home safe first.

She sways reflexively against him when a loud motorcycle passes. Her hold on him tightens almost painfully. There's a vice-like quality to her grip that talks about fear better than her bleary eyes do. He readjusts 'get her home safe' to 'stay with her' almost without thinking.

"Just a little bit further," he says to her when he finally locks eyes on her apartment building.

"I am never fucking wearing these shoes again," she spits out angrily in reply. He almost laughs at her vehemence. Apparently, life and death situations have a way of bringing out priorities. "Stupid heels."

He makes a noise of assent in the back of his throat at that. He's obviously never worn heels before -- that time when he was six and raided his mother's closet _does not count_ \-- but he thinks they're probably shit to run in. Even more shit to fight in, if her limping gait and her swollen ankle are anything to go on. He's not sure if she's ever heard of sensible shoes, though, because all he's ever seen her in are heels. He tells her that much, too.

"Bullshit, Frank," she slurs at him. "I know sensible. But I know comfortable, too."

"Heels aren't comfortable." He's relatively sure of that. Maria always complained non-stop about them after a night out. Though, by the way Karen lives in them, he'd almost think that there are suddenly two types of women: those who like heels and those who pretend to like them. He's not sure what to do with that information. "You're better off with some sneakers or boots, ma'am."

The scoffing noise she makes at him already sounds a lot more like her than her previous mumbled noises did. Whatever they injected her with seems to be wearing off, which is good because he doesn't quite know what to do to heal drug-addled minds. Thinks he probably should know, with the way this city works. Files that thought away for later. All that counts is getting her up the steps to her apartment. Getting her to some modicum of safety.

He lets out a breath when they pass through the door of her apartment building. It's less likely anyone will follow them inside. They wanted this to be an untraceable scare-and-mug-the-journalist sort of deal. They didn't pay for a direct hit. Certainly didn't pay enough for anyone to follow the Punisher into an unknown building. He shakes his head at that.

"Stairs? Ugh." Her dismayed tone doesn't promise a world of good. "That's going to take an hour or more. Great."

She seats herself demonstratively on the bottom steps. Groans in pain when her ankle gives way a little earlier than the rest of her does. He frowns down at her. Her eyes are fluttering shut now that she's not using all her energy to walk. He eyes her for a brief while. Contemplates.

"I'm going to carry you up," he finally says to her. The words come out a little more cracked and nervous than he wants them to. The fact that her eyes just flew back open and she's staring at him with her too-blue gaze does nothing to soothe his nerves back down. Still, he persists. "Sooner you're home, sooner you can rest."

She scoffs. "Just lemme sit here." Points at him. Squints. Tries very hard to sound all serious and business-like. "That beard has to go, Frank."

He rolls his eyes in reply to that. "Whatever you say, ma'am." He seats himself next to her on the stairs. Pats her knee gingerly before folding his hands in his lap. "Whatever you say."

He's not sure how long they both sit there. Her head eventually drops onto his shoulder. He snakes an arm around her when she is in danger of toppling forward in her slumber. Her breathing sounds soft but not uneven, though he can't be sure that the kick to her side didn't do damage. It's the thought of her injuries that eventually moves him back into action.

Careful not to upset or wake her, he shifts to let his other arm fit under her knees. He presses down on her arm so she's tucked more snugly against him. The last thing he needs is for her to fall out of his arms when he loses his balance. He breathes in. Once. Twice. Shifts his body to a midway between sitting and standing. Supports her body with his knee before rising to his feet entirely.

The stairs aren't any easier to navigate with her asleep in his arms. He has to take care not to slam her head into the walls or her feet into the banister. He hates walking up stairs like this. She hardly weighs anything, but his hands grow slick with sweat the further up they go. He tries not to look at her face or her hair. Tries not to focus on anything but getting her up those damn stairs. Snorts out a laugh when he remembers Red must've carried him at one point, too. Bridal-style probably isn't Red's cup of tea, though.

He vows to carry Red around like this just once to mess with the man. It's a pettier thought than he's used to having. Somehow, though, he doesn't think the woman in his arms would mind. He hasn't missed the fall-out from Red's revealed identity. Regrets it in the man's stead.

Red would have been her safer bet.

"Frank?" Her voice is hoarse. "I meant what I said."

He doesn't look at her now that she's woken up. She's thankfully got the good sense not to shift in his arms unexpectedly now that they're halfway up the second flight of stairs. "What's that, ma'am?" he asks. Answers one thing for her. "The beard's staying."

She groans in reply. "Not that. You could have left me on the stairs." She sounds a little clearer, though still not quite herself. "Didn't have to stay."

"Someone's got to check your injuries."

"Deserve them."

He scoffs at her. "Doesn't matter. Hurt is hurt." This is a hurt he knows how to fix. The hurt that lurks behind her gaze is harder. He offers her a bandaid for that, too, insufficient though it may be. "Least I can do."

Her silence is akin to careful resignation. He'll take that. It's better than the knife's cut of rage. Better than the gaping wounds of absence. He thinks bullets are somehow cleaner than the rips and tears of places in his life where people used to be. Yet, she's slipped between the cracks of himself. He can't reason that away. Can't shut the door on that.

He hopes she doesn't shut her door on him a second time now that he's put her on her own two feet just outside of her apartment. She looks a little steadier. Her hands smooth her skirt down before reaching up to her neck and pulling a small silver necklace off. He smiles to see her apartment key dangling on it. Clever.

She tucks her hair behind one ear as she unlocks and opens the door. Glances back at him. He still finds it hard to meet her eyes. Does so anyway. Reminds himself he's been through worse hellfires than Karen Page's blue eyes can conjure.

Isn't so sure of that anymore in the next second.

"Come in, Frank."

*****

He's not sure which one of their life choices led to this point, but he's quite certain that Hell's Kitchen has a habit of turning worlds upside down. Or at least slightly askew and off-kilter, if his current slightly unsteady state is anything to go by.

He realises he knows very little about the secretary-turned-reporter who's now sitting on top of her desk in the tiny space New York City likes to call an apartment. He doesn't know what called her here, though her demeanor's always suggested some kind of history that has the ability to haunt. There's no other reason why she would even have considered seeking out truth amid the justice he was doling out. He knows he's not the only figure lurking in her shadow.

His is the only darkness present here and now, however, and he vows to keep all the rest away from her door. So he checks her bruised arm, her banged-up wrist, her scraped knees and swollen ankle best he can. Putters around her kitchen until he finds some ice and bandages that actually look more decent than any kind of medical supply he's used on himself in weeks. Leave it to Page to be overprepared for danger and injury -- he's quite sure he could stock a small hospital ward with the amount of plasters and medicine she's collected.

He keeps himself busy so he won't have to talk about anything. So she won't feel obligated to fill up the silence between them with her half-awake babble and whatever apology she can muster. She seems to catch on to the quiet. Leans back against her bullethole-filled wall and watches him wrap her ankle. She can't stop the hiss of pain that escapes her throat when he adjusts the ankle's position slightly. He waits for the tension to leave her body before continuing his ministrations.

She takes all of his caretaking without a single complaint. Points at any small injuries he may have missed, hitches her skirt up slightly to let him treat the gash running down her thigh, and doesn't even fuss over how badly the disinfectant stings. He knows it does, because her eyes water the second he applies it to the cut. He tries to dab it in more gently, but her hand finds his long enough to press his fingers more firmly onto her skin. He lets her be.

Going after that company alone without a single back-up in place isn't his idea of a smart move by a long shot. If he were pettier -- if he were more like Red -- he might hold that against her. Yet, he can't help but feel that she would just look at him with a slightly raised eyebrow and comment something along the lines of knowing he'd been on her trail this past week so he can't say she was 'without back-up'.

"My side hurts," she says softly. He shakes his head as if to clear it from the cobwebs of his ruminations. She hesitantly tugs at the bottom of her shirt. "Can you take a look at it?"

"Sure."

She lifts her shirt up just enough for him to see the angry bruising that's spread out across her stomach and ribcage. He heaves a sigh at it. Doesn't know why she didn't complain about it sooner, though Karen Page is by no means the complaining type. It looks downright painful to the touch.

Hesitantly, he raises his hand to her belly. Skims across her skin as lightly and yet expertly as he can, touching the edges of her bruises and ensuring that it's not a more severe injury as he goes along. Her reactions and her breathing remain normal, however, and he is satisfied for the moment.

Both his hands now move to her ribcage, which elicts a small wince from her. He's not surprised. Rib injuries can be painful and she's not used to being kicked around like a football. He remembers his first rib injury too vividly to not be careful with her as he checks her over. She hisses sharply when he presses down on her ribs regardless of his care. He tries to keep his touch as light as possible, but he needs to figure out if she's not hurt worse than he thought. Her breath is hitching in her throat now that he's gently prodding and poking at her injuries.

"Breathe," he murmurs. Tries to put as much authority in his voice as possible. "In." He pauses. "Out." Another pause. "In." Heartbeat. "Out."

Upon the third repeat, he hears her fall into the pace he set for her. He's careful not to move his hand away from her ribs. Nothing shifts underneath his fingers. Her breath sounds regular now that the sharp edge of the pain has lifted off it. He lets out a breath of his own he didn't know he'd been holding. Moves his hand off her ribs and back to her leg carefully. She smoothes her shirt back down in response.

"Nothing's broken," he tells her, "which is good. Think you just got banged up pretty bad, but it's probably nothing permanent." He doesn't tell her he's got no way to check for internal damage, but he thinks she gets the point. "If the bruises change, uh, don't fade right or something.. if the pain gets worse in the next week.. you need to see a doctor."

"Sure." She lets out a rather shaky breath. "Could've been worse."

He doesn't want to contemplate worse. Not when she's alive right in front of him.

He doesn't tell her that.

Instead, his hand rises to brush the injury on her cheekbone. It's not a very deep cut, but the edges of it are more jagged and angry-looking than he'd like. Dried blood is crusted around the wound and has traced her cheek like tears are wont to do. She lets him be, though her eyes warily follow his every move.

He touches her chin lightly to tilt her head back a little more. It makes it easier for him to clean her injury. At least, that's what he tells himself when he's leaning over her close enough to breathe her in. He dabs at the dried blood carefully. Brushes the remainder of it off her skin.

Her hand shoots up and closes around his wrist reflexively when he begins dabbing the disinfectant onto the wound. He frowns down at her. He doesn't stop cleaning the wound, though her tight grip makes it harder for him to move. She's wincing visibly. Her eyes flutter open and shut. He holds her chin a little more tightly to stop her from wriggling out of his grasp.

"Hold still," he finally complains at her. Dabs at the wound a little harder than he intended.

"Ow, Frank!"

"Sorry."

She stops moving, though. Her breathing slows back down to normal moments later with a short gasp. For a moment, the puff of breath that graces her lips reminds him of his own exhale before he pulls the trigger. He remembers how calm the world feels at that time. Wonders if it's the same for her. She's a couple of ounces of panic and a hell of a lot more weight of a fight that everyone seems to underestimate. Dangerous.

He's not so stupid as to underestimate the woman in front of him, because he's been at her gunpoint. Knew she'd shoot him just as easy as she'd helped him before. He believes she wears this city in her bones more than he ever did. He's sand and dry air and the shift-tilt of battle in places foreign with grief.

He shakes his head moments later. Finishes up on treating her injuries. Begins putting all the supplies away. Boxes up bandages with practiced ease and clicks the medicine kit shut. He can feel the weight of her gaze on his face even when he's not looking straight at her.

"Thanks." Her voice is soft. More brittle than he's ever heard from her. "You didn't have to.."

"Yeah, I did." He'll have no argument from her. Not on that. He shakes his head. "I had your back. Knew you would not back down after the warning." He already knew beforehand that there was a very large chance she would ignore that one. "You did good."

She raises her eyebrow at him over that. "Good is a matter of perception." She rolls her shoulders back with a slight groan. "At least Ellison's going to be happy. He'll have this story out on time. Didn't quite feel like they were trying to scare me." Her gaze turns darker as her words grow measured. "Felt like they were trying to make me disappear."

He looks at her, then.

"You're still here," he says.

It sounds like a prayer.

*****

She talks in her sleep. It's not loud like the snippets of conversation he heard from Junior in the middle of the night sometimes. Hers are more quiet mumbles that make her brow furrow and her mouth curve downward. There is a restlessness to the way she moves in her sleep that keeps him awake tonight. He hopes it's just the stuff they injected her with that's messing with her head. Some kind of residual nightmare brought on by whatever drug they got their hands on. He can't make out a word of what she's saying. Her breath comes out in gasps and whispers.

He doesn't dare wake her.

He sits on the floor next to her bed and listens to every toss and turn. If he cranes his neck, he can see just a sliver of her face that's creased with worry. He tries not to look at her, not even when her hand drops over the side of the bed and brushes past his shoulder. All he does is fold his own hand in hers to give it a reassuring squeeze. She has to know she's not alone.

He didn't plan to spend all of tonight sitting on her bedroom floor. She hadn't asked him to stay. There'd never be begging from her. Never a 'please' or a 'need' that he would be able to hear. Yet, he knows her face. Knows the way her eyes strayed to her door before checking every single one of her windows. Knows the way her shoulders set in a firm line before opening her laptop up to type down the story she almost died getting. For all the steel she's got in that spine of hers, she's got plenty of fear in those blue eyes to make a man reconsider letting her spend the whole night on her own.

He knows now that Karen Page extends an invitation to stay by making two cups of coffee instead of one. She speaks in light and airy terms about the ins and outs of the company she investigated. There's a spark of life in her as soon as she shows him notes, print-outs, photographs, all of the meticulous documentation that says 'these are their lives and they will go to hell for what they've done'. He quite agrees with her on that count. It's not just the finances of the matter. It's what they _do_ with those finances that worries if one looks closer.

She's got enough to prove every last bit of it. Her fingers typed the story out while she talked with him, with every hammering sound of the keyboard acting as a condemnation of the wicked. He had finally stopped to read the majority of it over her shoulder. Interjected some of his own investigations -- slim in comparison with hers, but people tell you different things when held at gunpoint then when met with a smile. She worried about the article needing more than its allotted space. More than the words she'd been granted to devote to it.

He told her that he would see his own justice done if all that stopped it from appearing in a newspaper was a fucking wordcount bar. She'd eyed him carefully over the top of her coffee cup. Finally nodded her assent.

Went one step further in the next breath.

He squeezes her hand reflexively now that he remembers she told him to run them into the ground no matter what. There'll be fallout from the article. The kind that makes people pack their bags and attempt to run. The kind that sees them go into different hiding places that may yet be connected to the kind of murderous extortion that business hides so well.

He'd been planning to spend tonight gathering up supplies for that inevitable hunt. Thinks there's nothing wrong if the Punisher reads a journalist's investigative work a little too closely and puts two and two together on his own. Nothing will lead back to her. That's the promise he makes -- tonight and perhaps always.

There's always time for research and preparation. There is less time to make sure someone's safe. He'd learned that much from his wife. He'd learned it through his children. He thinks, prays, hopes, believes he's learned enough of it to not have Karen Page become his third lesson in how much the world can take away. He doesn't kid himself into believing he's a good man.

Yet, she seems to think he is. Maybe that's the space he has with her, undeserved though it might feel. Maybe it's the space he gives her, too, though her presence around him feels so full it's like his heart has begun to stutter a new rhythm altogether.

His head rests against her mattress and his hand is curled so tightly around her own that he almost fears he's going to wake her. He doesn't let go of her until the morning light streams over her face and quietens all her frightful shadows.

He's gone before she wakes.

*****

He's been visiting her too often.

He knows this the second he drops his bag onto the floor next to his boots. Knows it when he picks up a cup of hot coffee from its trusted place on the counter. Knows it when he hears the sharp rattle of her fingers hitting her laptop's keyboard with all the practice of a writer having caught their inspiration for the day.

He's entirely sure of it when he almost spits his coffee back out now that he's come face to face with the latest monstrosity she dragged into her apartment in his absence.

"The hell is that?"

"Hm?"

He squints at the potted.. well.. he supposes it's intended to be a plant. Frowns when his eyes land on the stems that bear what look to be tiny pumpkins. Finds himself wishing there was something stronger in his coffee than caffeine. He's not equipped to deal with plants that should not be real. Pumpkins don't grow on trees. He's one hundred percent sure of it. Even small pumpkins don't hang off sturdy-looking stems. He reaches out to the nearest pumpkin. Bumps it gently with one finger.

"That ain't real," he says.

"Yes, it is." Her typing has stopped. She sounds vaguely annoyed now that he's broken her focus. "It's called solanum integrifolium."

"Solanum integri-what?"

"It's a pumpkin tree!"

He stares at it for a good long minute. He hears her put the laptop on the seat. Hears her tread closer to where he's standing, though her bare feet make far less noise than her usual heels do. He turns his head toward her slightly now that she's standing next to him. "Ma'am, pumpkins aren't meant to be on trees. What's wrong with the good old-fashioned ones?"

"Nothing. You can't eat these, Frank. They're for decoration purposes."

Her voice sounds like she's trying to hold back a giggle or two at his expense. He snorts derisively. If you can't eat them, then what's the _point_? He doesn't ask her that. She'd only laugh the same way Maria always laughed if something had decoration purposes he didn't understand. The soft reassuring pat of her hand on his shoulder is new to him, though.

"Halloween?" he finally rumbles. It's not so much a question as it is residual confusion. Her answering laugh tells him she's caught onto that, too. "Thought you'd maybe go for a terrifying skeleton or two decoration-wise."

"I've seen more than enough skeletons lately," she says briskly. "Remember that lawfirm upstate that I told you about? Apparently they had a dumping ground for their.. uh.. less successful employees. Ellison dragged me to the excavation yesterday." She shudders visibly. "I think I still have sand stuck between my toes. Did I mention I hate it when they use lye?"

"You mentioned that over the phone, yeah."

She'd called him last night just as he was setting up for a job. He supposes it's rather a sad state of affairs that there are only two people in this world who know his phone number. One found out through means he's quite certain are not legal in any country in the world, but that's all right. It's better to have easy access to one of the best hackers in the world, after all. He never likes Micro's calls because they mean a shitload of work. He thinks he likes Karen's calls a lot better, even when she just calls to complain about lawfirms and morals.

He secretly thinks that Red fuels a lot of her annoyance, but he's not stupid enough to let her know that.

"I've always liked Halloween," she says moments later. It's like she was not even discussing body disposals half a minute ago. He likes her even more for that casual change of subject. "I used to dress up scary, you know? Really all-out paint on my face, meticulous costume, the whole nine yards.. I'd been told that Halloween was meant to scare away evil monsters by making yourself an evil monster, so it made sense in my head." There's a soft smile playing around her lips as she speaks. He can tell she's lost in her own memories. "All the other girls in my class were princesses and whatever else kind of good fairy crap their parents put them in. Not me. I was a zombie princess one time and I swear I heard my mom's heart break." There's a cold edge to her voice that he dares not ask about. "I guess I always had a.. penchant for dark."

He decides to lift her spirits the only way he knows how.

"That tree is the least scary thing I've ever seen in my life," he comments decisively. "You need to up your game."

Little does he know that Karen Page never once backs down from a challenge once it's given. He doesn't yet realise that by this time tomorrow he'll be fighting his way through fake cobwebs trying to get so much as a cup of coffee in her kitchen. The pumpkin tree is, of course, the centrepiece of her pride and joy in this feast. He scoffs and complains about all of it with the good-natured calm in his voice that he reserves for her alone. Laughs about it when a fake spider drops onto her neck and she spends half an hour screeching bloody murder.

He finally decides he definitely likes her brand of Halloween when he opens his duffel bag on the job only to find a stash of candy that rivals a kid's loot from a night of trick-or-treating.

The Punisher doesn't go hungry that night.

*****

He's aware he sometimes springs the unexpected on her. So far, 'unexpected' has consisted mostly of him darkening her doorstep at all hours of the day. He delivered flowers at work one time because he needed her to check out a source he can't kill. Dressed up as a homeless beggar one time outside of her workspace because he needed to pass down some details before she published a story. He brings takeout home sometimes because she forgets to eat when she's working. (Never pizza, though, because he abhors it with every fibre of his being. That admission had almost made her drop her coffee.)

Sometimes, 'unexpected' unfortunately consists of a little more than just him.

"Can you watch him for me? For the weekend?"

"Uh.. I've never had a dog?" she counters. Her eyebrow's skyrocketing toward her hairline as she watches Zeus sniff around her fridge. "I don't know how to handle dogs. Especially not big dogs like.. uh..?"

"Zeus," he supplies helpfully.

"Right."

"It's real easy. You just walk him two or three times a day. He likes sticks. Don't let him eat those. He'll listen to standard dog commands." He almost smiles at the puzzlement that passes over her face. "He eats what's in that bag over on the table. Don't put that on the floor, because I have a hunch he's three seconds away from figuring out how a lid works."

"I'm a little much out of my depth here."

"It's one weekend," he reminds her softly. "You've dealt with worse than this dog. Please."

She contemplates. He can tell by the tap of her foot that she's nervous. She doesn't have a reason to be. Zeus is a bit of a big dummy and he's quite certain that the dog will take a shine to her because anyone who's got food is a friend. He's already sniffing around Karen's leg and pressing his nose into her knee right now. To her credit, she doesn't flinch at all.

"What's his story?" she asks. "I didn't even know you have a dog, Frank."

"He's a recent acquisition. Was on the job few weeks ago. Crew I was hunting did some side-business in dog fighting. Bad business." He frowns at the memories. "Zeus was their favourite underdog. Basically means he was the one getting bit and kicked all the time. He doesn't have the fight in him. Doesn't understand why he should grab another dog by the throat."

She goes quiet for a while upon hearing that. Shakes her head a few times while her brow is crinkled in a frown. He's not sure why she searches his face for a long time during her contemplation. Isn't sure what she's looking for, so he just leans against the wall and lets her be. He observes the dog more than he does her.

"All right, I'll take him," she finally says. Her voice isn't tinged with reluctance or fear, so he knows she'll be okay with this. Is certain of it seconds later when she addresses the dog directly. "We'll make a nice weekend out of it, won't we Zeus? Yeah that's right. Frank's going away for a bit and you're staying with me, how 'bout that?" Zeus is furiously wagging his tail at this point. She pats his head carefully. "We'll survive somehow, won't we?"

"You'd better," he tells her.

*****

Survive they do, really, even when the weekend accidentally stretches into five days and would've lasted even longer if he hadn't discharged himself from Claire Temple's care a little earlier than permitted. Temple's used to trouble and ferrying an introduction between him and the nurse is the best thing Red's ever done, but he's quite sure that he's going to be facing a well-aimed punch next time he drops by at her practice unannounced. Nobody discharges themselves from the nurse's office early.

He's aware he looks like crap, but Karen's reaction upon seeing him makes him wince all over again. He almost contemplates giving up the job now that her hands have flown to her mouth and her eyes are filling up with unshed tears. She's pushing Zeus back with the heel of her foot effortlessly, despite the dog's best efforts to get reunited with him.

"What happened? We were so worried.."

"They got the jump on me. More folks than I expected. Someone must've put together that I'd be coming for them."

"How'd you..?"

"You've got Red to thank for that." He's not too proud to admit that. The man's handy in tight spots like that, even when his sanctimonious bullshit made his already bad night about a million times worse. "Got him to thank for the patch-up, too. He knows a good nurse."

"Claire." Karen nods slowly. "Foggy and I met her briefly once. She's cool."

"Doesn't ask questions, so yes." He affirms the nurse is all right with him. More so than Red is, that's for sure. He scoffs out a laugh. "If Red spends one more time going ' _no deaths tonight, Frank_ ' while we're in the middle of a fight, I swear I will kill him myself."

A giggle escapes her at that point. He's as surprised as she is by that. He raises an eyebrow at her. Questioning. She lets out a rather sheepish laugh and waves him over to the nearest chair. He gratefully takes her up on that offer. Is rewarded for that effort by Zeus putting his head on his lap. He pats the dog absently.

"You sounded just like Matt there," she comments. "Dead on, voice and everything. Even the look on your face." She sounds like she's enjoying that. "You really _are_ good at doing impressions."

He scrunches up his nose a bit at that. "Schoonover told you 'bout that, did he?" He shakes his head. Impressions'd always come easy. Easy laughs, easy times. "If you know people, you know how to mimic them. No talent required."

" _I_ think it's a talent," she tells him decisively. Begins to putter around her kitchen in a way he recognises as the road to coffee. "I've never been good at that. Never been that good at lying either, so that was my actress dreams shot to hell long before I got to New York." She's just making casual conversation, but yet he learns something new about her every time she does. "I think I just want to see the best of people too much to really know them."

"You've seen it all from me," he says. Leaves the 'you know me' unspoken in the air between them. He studiously avoids looking at her. Scrapes his throat. Changes the subject in the only haphazard fashion he knows how. Pats the dog's head lovingly. "Did this guy behave himself?"

"Needs less maintenance than you do," she quips immediately, "so I'd certainly say so. He's a sweetheart." He looks over at her then only to see her beaming her radiant smile at the dog. "He makes for a really nice footwarmer too."

If there's one thing he appreciates about Karen Page, it's her ability to make light of something terrible. He sees in her eyes that his injured appearance disconcerts her. Appreciates the way she focuses on making sure the dog's got everything he needs before she even thinks about setting a cup of coffee in front of him. Has a newfound fondness for her when Zeus listens to her every word and trots off to proudly chew on his new bone.

"You're spoiling him," he complains at her good-naturedly. "I'll never wean him off that habit now."

She raises her eyebrow. "With all the coffee I've made you.." She doesn't even have to finish that sentence. He huffs out a laugh at the wicked smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth. Isn't surprised when she curls up in the seat next to him and puts her feet in his lap. His hand reflexively closes around her toes. She makes a slow noise of comfort at that. "You're better than the dog," she tells him when he gently squeezes the balls of her feet. "Zeus doesn't know the power of foot massages. It's been a tough few days."

"Yeah."

He allows himself the comfort of the silence she offers him. Doesn't have to share how much of a close shave with death the weekend really was. Doesn't have to talk about leaving Zeus with her in a much more permanent fashion.

He sits in Karen Page's kitchen in the dead of night with her feet propped up in his lap and wonders when the world around him changed again.

*****

Some things in life mercifully remain the same, no matter how many weeks or months he spends in her presence.

"Crap. _Crap._ "

"Hm?" he offers her. Admonishes her jokingly when she moves to stronger swears. Girl can curse a hell of a lot better than any Marine he's ever been around, that's for sure. "Language, Page."

"We're out of coffee!"

He lets out a worse swear than anything he's ever heard come out of her mouth at that. He hears a very soft giggle escape amid her obvious foot-tapping and cabinet-slamming noises of frustration. He groans in annoyance. A cup of dark coffee was just what he needed. It's been too much of a long day to go entirely without it.

"I have hot chocolate?" she offers hopefully seconds later. Actually whips her head around the kitchen's corner so she can deliberate their coffee conundrum face-to-face with him. "We could put whipped cream on top of it or something. It's too late to run out to the store and I wouldn't trust the coffeejoint down the block from here with anything.."

"Yeah, sure," he concedes. There's not much else for it. He amends that concession almost straight away, however. "Not the instant-crap, though, right? Even Junior hated that with the force of a thousand suns."

"God, no, that's revolting." Her nose wrinkles in distaste and she shudders rather comically in exaggeration. "I will have you know I actually have good taste! Let me just heat the chocolate milk up, okay? Thank god I actually bought a pack of it. Always liked this stuff in winter."

She continues talking even when he's ribbing her about her supposed 'good taste', which he thinks she doesn't have simply because she likes pineapple so much she even puts it on top of pizza. The only credit he gives her is that she drinks her coffee black at three in the morning when she's desperately trying to finish up on an article of hers. She keeps telling him that his beard is the number one reason why she's not listening to a word he says. (She'll get used to the beard someday. He's convinced of it even when she isn't.)

She finally skips out of the kitchen with two mugs of hot chocolate and a canister of whipped cream tucked firmly under her arm. He eyes the canister rather warily, as both mugs already have a pretty alarming amount of whipped cream balancing on top of the liquid inside of them. Contemplates the mug she sets in front of him for a second there. Almost questions why she's brought the canister, but that's before his brain screeches to a halt now that she's tipped her head back and is emptying the canister's contents directly into her mouth.

Her victorious smile is marred by a few clots of whipped cream.

"Oh god, Page, that's disgusting," he grumbles. Shakes his head. "That's not what whipped cream is for."

"Sure it is," she says. Shakes the canister at him. "Come on now. Open up."

"You sound like my damn dentist."

"Your dentist would never say that to you when you're faced with something this sweet." He has to concede her point on that one. "Open up, Frank."

He only really opens his mouth because her eyes are sparkling with a mirth he can't quite fathom. Is rewarded for his effort moments later with the sweet, sweet taste of whipped cream on his tongue and a hysterical giggle from the blonde woman sitting across from him. He splutters a little at the amount, but works through it rather expertly. Once he does, he's surprised to find her laughing so helplessly that tears are streaming down her cheeks.

"Find that funny, do you?" The most she can do is nod and wipe some of the tears off her cheeks while letting out a rather unladylike snort of laughter. He can't help but smile at that. Grabs for the canister moments later. "Open up, Page."

They end up alternating gulps of hot chocolate with tiny clots of whipped cream until the canister sputters and dies on them. He feels a little queasy, but her noise of disappointment upon discovering she ran out of both hot chocolate and whipped cream at once convinces him her stomach must be made of steel. Her make-up has run its course over her cheeks simply because she couldn't stop laughing. It's the most carefree he's ever seen her.

He doesn't share that it's the most carefree he's felt in years, too, but thinks she knows it anyway when she looks at him the way she does now.

*****

He usually doesn't swing by to see her when he's done with a job. He never carries visible weaponry with him into her building. Doesn't sit up on one of her chairs to clean his guns at her kitchen table. He takes care of any injuries before he goes out to see her.

Most of the time.

Tonight's a rather sorry exception. He tells himself he's only stopping by because he took a blow to the head and he's bleeding so bad that he can barely see. He can already feel his eye swelling shut in indignance at yet another injury he couldn't prevent himself from sustaining. He has the forethought to stash his weaponry in the bag that seems to grow heavier with every step he manages up the stairs.

He doesn't like to carry war to Karen Page's doorstep, though it's lodged in every breath he takes and in every bone in his body that still has power to break. It feels wrong to disturb her peace no matter how often she says she doesn't mind. No matter how often she sounds grateful to just find him alive.

Today, he is selfish. He knows this even when his fist bangs against her door and he sways upon the rather unfriendly "you again?"-titled welcome mat. He's fully cognisant of it when the door opens and he hears her answering intake of breath. He almost hates himself when her hands reach for him more gently than any touch that's landed on him all week.

"I'm not even going to ask how this happened." She's midway between berating and caring as she guides him inside and keeps Zeus at bay simultaneously. The dog's been staying with her so often that he might as well be hers. "Jesus, Frank, what's it going to take for you to be careful? Did anyone see you come up here?"

"Yeah, half of New York and half of Homeland Security," he quips tiredly.

"Very funny."

The clip of irritation in her voice makes him lean back against the chair a little more warily. She's not that gentle when she's freaking out and he's in no condition to stop her from prodding and poking at every inch of his body that hurts. He hears her take a sharp breath and let it out in a calming puff. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Sorry," he offers.

"You're going to be, mister," she warns him right before she begins to wash the blood off his face. He grunts out something that could be assent or dissent, depending on how she interprets it. "Tilt your head back, okay? I need to take a closer look at your eye."

His eyes may be closed, but he can picture the frown on her forehead and the thoughtful expression in her eyes without issue. Her fingers grow gentler now that he is following her instructions. She withdraws her touch briefly. The reason why becomes clear when he hears the snap of an elastic band and opens his eyes slightly to see her tie her hair back into a messy bun. Huh. He must be hurt worse than he thought.

He's not sure when Karen Page tying her hair back became synonymous with trouble. Maybe it's all the times she piled her hair on top of her head before sitting down to thoroughly ruin someone's reputation with a few well-chosen words. Maybe it's her three-am messy hairbun coming loose from its constraints when she falls asleep on his shoulder after another few hours of coffee-and-talking. Maybe it's just from that time she flicked flour and sugar into his general direction when he disturbed her in the middle of one of her disastrous baking adventures.

Whatever the reason, he knows he won't be able to rest for a while yet. Not when she's looking down at him like that and he's sitting here with her towering over him just so. Not when her hands reach for him to steady him before she goes back to work on his face.

"Looks like he missed your eye only barely." She sounds annoyed when she pokes at the injury just under his eyesocket. He winces at a particularly sharp press of her nails. "You were seconds away from having to wear an eyepatch for the rest of your life, Frank!"

"Nah."

"Yes, you were. God, that would've been a disaster."

He raises his eyebrow at that. "That so?" he asks. Wants to contest it in a way he recognises is virtually suicidal.

"You can't do an eyepatch _and_ that beard, Frank. You'd look like a runaway pirate or something. Utterly ridiculous."

"Should get my leg hacked off too, then. For full pirate purposes."

"Shut up."

"I mean it."

"For Halloween, maybe," she finally laughs now that she's finished dabbing antibacterial stuff onto his face. "It'd be scary enough. Not at all like my weird witch costume."

"I thought that was cute." Lets her know with a smile that he's kidding. Decides to pile it on. "Adorable, even."

"I wasn't going for cute!" She rolls her eyes at him. "Honestly, Frank, they must've hit your head pretty good if you just used the a-word without flinching. Asshole."

"That's an a-word, too."

"You don't say." She sighs. "What _am_ I going to do with you?"

What she does is take care of the rest of his visible injuries, which are mostly scraped knuckles and a cut on his left arm. He lets her be. Simply watches her for a while. She keeps up a steady stream of words that are part-admonishment and part-gratitude. If he didn't know better, he'd say she was praying. He closes his eyes against the steady stream of soft words that wraps itself tightly around him. There is a peace in her touch that belies her strength.

Prayers end with amen. Never with kisses. This he knows.

Maybe she was not praying after all.

The touch of her lips on his is featherlight. Fleeting. Warm. Searing. Scorching. Accidental. No. Wait. Lingering a little too long to be merely accidental. Her breath brushes over his skin now that she pulls away from him. He shivers from the trail of heat she leaves on his face. His eyes fly open as soon as her touch abandons him.

Her hand's flown to her mouth. She's whispering something that sounds a little too much like an apology for his tastes. So he reaches for that hand of hers. Cups her face with his other hand before winding his way through her hair. The messy bun is coming undone under his touch. She's already standing close enough to reach without great difficulty. He inhales softly. Gazes into those all-too-blue eyes full of questions she dares not ask of him. He bridges the small gap that exists between them unthinkingly.

The second touch, of his lips on hers, is like an electric current uncoiling to wreak havoc on them both. He builds the pressure slowly. Securely. More steadily than he feels. His heart feels like it's stuttering and halting in his chest now that she's pressing back against him. The sigh that escapes her sounds far too content to be accidental, now.

A part of him comes undone when her hand come to rest on his chest and her other hand tangles firmly into his own. It takes all of his own strength to simply remain seated. To not push too far. To savour the taste of her on his lips, the feeling of her hand in his, the smile he feels curve around her lips underneath his own, the breath that becomes a shared event rather than a solitary moment.

The lingering feeling of her hand in his is all that remains when he pulls away from her abruptly.

He doesn't leave that night. He's not _that_ big an asshole. Not that much of a boy that he forgot how to be a man. He studiously avoids her gaze, though, which is made easier by the very fact that his eye is definitely swollen shut now. He makes himself light around her, setting down a cup of coffee next to her open laptop before turning around to entertain Zeus for the evening.

He's relieved when he finally hears the pitter-patter of her fingers hit the keyboard in a steady rhythm.

*****

He isn't sure why she's not asking him any questions. Not sure why she's content to observe him over a mug of hot chocolate today and not start any kind of conversation with him. Not sure what the look in her eyes could possibly signify.

They've talked about a lot of things in the past few weeks. About cases, mostly. About anything concerning the dog. Hell, even about who's left the towel on the floor in the bathroom (Karen) and who's always throwing pizza place pamphlets in the trash (him). They've exhausted any kind of conversation about Inhumans and registration acts. Anything that's normal for them to talk about has passed between the walls of her apartment. He doesn't care about any of that, really.

He can't bridge the gap between them enough to bring himself to talk about what he's been thinking about all this time. He fidgets under her gaze no matter how much he wills himself to remain still. Avoids her eyes for as long as he can.

It's harder to avoid her when she sets down the mug of hot chocolate with a huff and walks over to where he's leaning against her kitchen counter. She's in his face, all golden and blue and indignant to the bone.

"This is ridiculous!"

"What?"

She makes an annoyed noise at him. Gestures wildly. It's such a Karen-thing to do that he very nearly chuckles at her. "This!" she tells him. Prods his chest warningly. "This."

"Can you possibly be any more vague?" he replies. Shifts his gaze away from her fierce glare again. "Don't know what you mean."

"You and me."

"What about you and me?"

His tone is careful. As measured as he can make it. If he were to say anything more, he'd tell her he messed up. Would she even understand that he did? Would she understand that the only mistake he made was letting go of her all those weeks ago? That he's been thinking about the curve of her lips, the gasp of her breath, the satisfied noise that curled into him almost without stopping to draw a breath of his own? That she's lodged herself into his brain so completely that he knows he's never going to be able to untangle her from the wreckage that is Frank Castle?

Does she know? He asks this even when he dares look at her again and sees that her eyes have softened considerably. Asks this even when she edges so close that they're almost nose-to-nose in the tiny space she calls her kitchen so proudly that he dares not contradict her.

Forgets to ask when he bridges the gap between them and chances a kiss.

The replying press of her lips to his is urgent and entirely too devil-may-care to be safe. He almost loses his footing from being pushed against the kitchen counter. Soft curves and gentle touches press into his skin now that she is flush against him and entangling herself in his embrace. He can't let go of her. Doesn't want to.

He's not entirely certain who deepens that kiss. All he knows is that he pushes back against her just enough to walk her to the nearest wall. Elicts a sharp gasp from her when he experimentally runs his tongue over her lower lip. He smiles at that. The sunlight streaks through her hair when he pulls away briefly to look at her. To be sure of her. She's smiling at him with entirely too much trust and giddiness reflected in her eyes.

He longs to see her smile like that every day.

So he presses a kiss to her temple. A kiss to her hair. A kiss to her forehead. He presses his lips to the small wrinkle at the corner of her eye. Presses one next to her ear and below her ear. Files away the sound she makes at the latter for some kind of later use he can't really identify just yet. He kisses the upturned corner of her mouth last before recapturing her lips with a satisfied noise.

"You and me," he tells her decisively when he drops his hands to her waist and leans his forehead against hers. It's been months since he walked back into her life. Today, he decides to stay and not pull away.

*****

He's not sure when he realises he loves her.

It's not a sharp kind of realisation. It's not a stab to the heart that leaves him gasping for air in the middle of the night. It's not the sting of a bullet piercing the skin. He doesn't think he could take it if that's how it'd feel.

No. Karen Page isn't sharp cuts and fleeting bullets.

She's the sunlight streaming across her sleeping form. She's the smile that curves her lips every morning when she tells him 'hi, Frank' in the drowsiness of her slumber's remnants. She's the hand on his arm in warning when he dives into something too deeply. She's the cold touch on his neck when he threatens to fall asleep during one of their stitch-up sessions that somehow keep happening to him over the past few months because he no longer has another place to go but hers. She's the stern voice telling Zeus to stop eating his last pair of good socks. (He's too much of a pushover sap to be a dog owner, or so she keeps telling him.) She's the woman who'll continue to order pineapple on her pizza once a week and proceed to shove a slice at him that he never ever eats. She's the one who'll get chased down the block once a month by some asshole who's never heard of the kind of damage Karen Page does to a man. She's the one who'll collapse onto the floor in laughter trying to do a failing impression of the look on the asshole's face once he realised he was in trouble.

She's the voice that pierces through the dark haze of battle. She's the one who stays his hand once, twice, and picks up the pieces he leaves her without complaint. She's the one talking about heroics and justice and second chances. He always counters, always argues, but it's the way her eyes light up and her voice grows steady when she speaks that makes him say anything to counter her at all. She's cold feet in his lap at three in the morning when she stretches out and puts the laptop away. She's damned whipped cream and hot chocolate even in the middle of summer. She decorates for every season and buys Zeus too many treats every time. She's a singing voice in the shower that could shatter glass in its purity. She's the presence at his back everlasting.

He's not sure when he realises he loves her. Time runs differently when he's with her. Seconds are hours. Hours are days. Days are weeks, months, and the promise of years. She never asks him about time. Never asks him for a stay or leave. She simply exists within his universe.

Perhaps, he thinks, love isn't always sharp. Doesn't always hit you in the face straight off the bat. Maybe some loves just course through your skin and take up residence in the halls of your mind without once announcing their presence.

He looks at her now. The sun's formed a soft halo around her hair. There's a vague crease between her brow he'll kiss away in the next few minutes. Her fingers hover over the keyboard in an endless pondering of what to write next. He hears a soft sigh escape her lips as he walks over to her.

Her blue eyes meet his own.

She smiles.

"You and me."

He says it to her over and over again. Whispers it in her ear in the dead of night. Talks about it over mugs of coffee and shared touches during daylight hours. Reasons it into her when even he isn't enough to keep the dark at bay. Is reminded of it when her hand slips into his own voluntarily. Knows it when weeks and months blend together in the perfect space of her presence.

It's his "I love you" until the end.


End file.
